


Bootlicker

by Ethan_SN



Series: Kylo X Reader [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Begging, Boot Worship, Dirty Talk, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Humiliation, Kylo Ren is Nice, Loss of Virginity, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pining, Possessive Kylo Ren, Punishment, Riding Crops, Rough Oral Sex, Spit Kink, Submissive Character, Top Kylo Ren, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Virginity, degradation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethan_SN/pseuds/Ethan_SN
Summary: You're Kylo Ren's personal housekeeper, and you make it a priority to know exactly how he prefers things, going out of your way to please him. Being a mind reader, of course, he knows this, and one day, he decides to indulge you... And finds out you're much more fun than he may have suspected. Now part of a series (but if you just want the one story, this stands well on its own, too) check out Concubine today!
Relationships: Ben Solo & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo/Reader, Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren/Reader
Series: Kylo X Reader [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599601
Comments: 7
Kudos: 190





	Bootlicker

By now, it’s no secret amongst your friends and immediate colleagues that you have the hots for Kylo Ren. It’s apparent in the way you look down and flush whenever he walks by, the way you clam up when they ask about him, the way you stare at him whenever you catch even a glance of his helmet. It’s an ongoing joke- you’re his “puppy”, following him around, doting on him, basking in each shred of attention he gives you. They seemed to pick a name that would make you the most uncomfortable, the most unsettled. It started when you were nineteen and had first caught a glimpse of Kylo Ren- he’d been wearing his helmet, of course, and it hadn’t started out as this curious, intense yearning; back then, it was a simple curiosity, one easily ignored. As the housekeeper assigned to Kylo Ren and his men, though, you were exposed to him often.

You can remember the first time you’d seen his chambers. Now, you know that he prefers his chambers to be attended to in his absence. Despite your desire to be near him, to be a fly on the wall, you generally time your entire day around respecting his wishes. Sometimes, you wonder if he notices- but surely not, you assume. The first time, though, you hadn’t known that- you hadn’t known his schedule, or how to tell whether or not he was in, or that he preferred to be left alone. You’d knocked four times, slowly, the way you’d been instructed. You’d waited for his reluctant permittance to his chambers, and you’d been careful not to look at him. He was meditating on his bed, covered by shadow, wearing his helmet. You gathered his disposed of laundry in silence, focusing solely on not annoying the man. You tidied all out of place belongings- every once in a while, he would have to tell you where to put something. Not anymore- now, you know. You’d cleaned his bedroom first, dusting everywhere- including the riding crop dangling from a hook on the wall- using a spray bottle on every surface, scrubbing clean every already immaculate window. You’d stared at the bed for a few moments, your brain glitching; you couldn’t make the bed, of course- he was atop it. Did you come back later or save it until tomorrow? Thankfully, he’d told you not to bother today, and you’d moved onto the sitting area, the dining area, the kitchen, and finally, the bathroom. Later, after you’d finished your other assigned rooms, you started with his laundry- you always did laundry in decreasing order of the person’s rank. If you didn’t get to someone- though of course  _ you _ always did- you’d want to deal with the person who could get you in the least amount of trouble. Otherwise, you’d have saved Kylo Ren until last, as a strange sort of treat - not that you particularly enjoyed doing his laundry, you told yourself. It was just that you often found yourself looking for little things to keep yourself sane in such a repetitive and mundane job. Since it was the beginning of his time here, you’d have to label every piece of clothing he had, but you’d forgotten to gather his clean clothes. Once you’d labelled his clothing and started both washers, you walked back to Kylo’s chambers with shaking hands.  _ Knock, knock, knock, knock _ . His permission came quicker this time, and he was sitting on a couch, reading. His helmet was gone, but he was quite frustratingly turned away from you. His black hair was thick, wavy, flowing - beautiful.

“What do you need?” he asked tiredly, as if he could somehow sense you were the very same housekeeper. He probably just assumed; there was no reason for someone else to bother him. “I told you not to bother with the bed.”

“I-I’m meant to label your clothing, sir. So they cannot be lost.”

“Alright,” he said. You made your way to his dresser, carefully gathering all of his things. He was walking away from you, towards his bathroom, when you left.

You noticed he’d placed his boots and helmet on the table outside his door to be cleaned and polished. Usually, you would grab those after the laundry- but you placed his helmet atop the bag of his clothing and carried his boots in one hand.

You assume now that he does notice, if not necessarily appreciate, your compliance to his preferences, considering he asked for you personally to be sent around with him, no matter what ship he was sent to or for how long. You remember the say your direct supervisor had told you, paging you into his office as you signed out of your laundry room.

“Your assignment has been adjusted,” he informed you.

Your heart sank. Had you done something wrong? “Sir- may I ask why?”

“Kylo Ren has requested you be assigned his permanent housekeeping detail,” he said. Your heart fluttered, and you all but gasped.

“He reques- how does he even know my name?”

Almost annoyed, your supervisor had glanced at you. “He didn’t refer to you by name. On this ship, your assignment will be Kylo Ren’s chambers as well as all other non-residential rooms on that wing. On all others that Kylo Ren finds himself on, you will report to the head of the housekeeping department to receive your assignments. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

Maybe he appreciates your accommodations- but most likely, he just doesn’t want to have to deal with strangers. Or, perhaps he isn’t keen on the thought of so many people seeing his things. Who knows what it could be- other than Kylo Ren himself.

Today, however, it seems like there’s no avoiding attending to his room while he’s there. You’ve finished all other tasks and he hasn’t left once. You knock before being permitted to enter. There’s a man standing in front of the door- you’re vaguely aware that he’s a General called Hux- who sneers at you as if he’s just caught sight of a cockroach. Kylo Ren is sitting on the couch in front of him, slowly tying the laces of his boots.

“Go away,” says General Hux. Just as you swivel, though, another, more familiar, voice sounds.

“No,” Kylo instructs. “Start in the bedroom, as usual.” You turn again, feeling your cheeks slowly grow red, though you’re unsure why. Your supply box in hand, you walk dutifully to the bedroom- should you close the door? They seem to be busy, and you’re certain it can’t be with anything you’re cleared to know. “Leave the door open,” he says, as if he can read your mind. It wouldn’t be at all surprising to you.

“Yes, sir,” you say, realizing you hadn’t said it to Hux nor Kylo when they’d addressed you. _ Please, don’t tell my supervisor… _ You think fearfully. You have a tendency not to speak, just obey; you’ve been reprimanded for it several times before.

Just as always, you work from the ceiling down. Your favorite part is making his bed, because save for the once weekly you change his sheets, it smells like what must be him. Again- when you say it in your head, it sounds strange, but it would be impossible to get through your job without looking forward to even the smallest of differences. Today, you try to guess what the scent is - part of it would be just… How he smells, naturally. What one might smell should they be tucked against his skin, no clothing nor cologne nor hair nearby, just clean, warm, bare skin… It’s that faint masculine smell, like heated rocks. It must be. The other half of the scent is- like waves, but ~spicy~. You can’t come up with another way to word it. You assume it was his body wash, or shampoo, or both.

You make your way to the kitchen next, as far away from the men as you can be. He has a lot more dishes than he generally does; you wash each one, dry them, put them away. All the while Hux is silent, growing ever angrier.

“We will finish this in the morning, Ren,” he hisses.

“Whatever you say, General,” Kylo responds nonchalantly. Hux stalks out and closes the door behind him. Kylo watches you as you finish cleaning the counters, the stove, the fridge.

As you move to the dining table, he kicks off the boots he’d spent so long putting on and extends his long, thick legs over the couch, reclining across the length of it, watching you through his mask. You wonder how that could be comfortable. “It isn’t,” he says softly, confirming his all-too-easy access to your mind. You clear your throat and scrub away. You scrub each of the three chairs in turn. When you glance at the sitting area, there isn’t much to do save clean the empty coffee table, so you do that, then turn to the bathroom. “Don’t bother,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” you say, then turn towards the door.

“Attend to my boots and helmet in here, please.” He says. You’re almost startled at the ‘ _ please _ ’.

“Yes, sir. I need to retrieve the supplies,”

“Alright. You can drop off the clothing and your other things on the way.”

“Yes, sir.” You walk out towards the laundry room. You’re certain you’ve exchanged more words today than you have all other days combined. You put your supplies away, send his laundry through the wash, and gather the materials specifically made for his shiny helmet and thick leather boots, then return to his room.

“You  _ can _ sit on the chair,” he says amusedly as you sit on the ground at his feet.

“Sir,” you say tentatively. “The chemicals would ruin the fabric of the chair. Unless you prefer me on the chair, I’d rather not risk it. Sir.”

“Alright,” he says. You pick up his familiar boots, then get to work- reverently, you scrub the already-clean leather with the solvent and the nylon brush. Once you’ve seen to every millimeter of the shoe, you dry it gently with a soft cloth, then apply the sealant to keep them waterproof. Then, you repeat the process with the other boot. “You’re quite focused,” he says gently.

“I enjoy cleaning your boots,” you say, before being once again struck by how stupid that sounds. You flush crimson. “They- are nice boots, sir.” Not helping. “It’s a nice change of pace from the rest of it.”  _ Finally _ , you manage to sound like a normal human.

You get the impression he’s amused you, despite the fact that he does not respond and you cannot see his face. When you’re done, you set them back where they were- side by side, the feet beneath the coffee table. He sits up, swinging his legs back down to the floor. You watch silently as he pulls them on once more, despite the fact that it’s already evening and you doubt he has anywhere to go. When he’s done, he moves over to the chair, his cape brushing past you. He looks down at you for a moment. “Wipe them off with water,” he instructs. “Just a wet cloth, gently.”

You don’t ask him why, though you’re slightly curious. You retrieve a new cloth and walk to the kitchen sink (then remember to say  _ yes, sir _ ), dampening it with room temperature water, then return to sit at his feet. Gently, in circular motions, you wipe them both. You have to use a new part of the cloth every once in a while; it seems like the sealant creates a small, transparent resin.

“Smell them,” he says, and you blink. “You’ll know whether the resin is still there or not.”

You swallow and obey, smelling only leather. “No, sir. It’s gone.”

“Good,” he said. “Turn around.”

You blink and obey, kneeling between his feet, your back to him. With one gloved hand, he pulls you back, so that you’re sitting, his knees against your shoulders. You sputter quietly with shock, your face turning crimson.  _ They’re never going to stop teasing me if they find out about this _ . Then, you remember he can hear you- silently, you beg him not to ask. He seems deeply amused, not speaking. You hear a strange hiss, then see his helmet lowered in front of you.

“Clean it,” he says. “Don’t turn around. Don’t look at me.”

You take his helmet in your hands and get to work, cleaning it silently. Then, you remember- “Y-yes, si-”

“I prefer it if you don’t speak,” he said. As rude as that is, you’re relieved. Talking to him is a burden for both of you. You hear him remove his gloves then. As if in response to your self-abasing thought, he gently strokes a hand through your hair. You’re certain you can’t get any more embarrassed- until  _ Thank the Gods I wore my hair down today _ runs through your mind. You feel a shiver run down your spine, the skin around his touch seeming to  _ shimmer _ beneath his ministrations. Even the sound of it is comforting as you continue your daily upkeep of his helmet. When you’re done, you wordlessly hand it back to him. You hear it hiss again as he presumably puts it back on; he stops  _ petting _ you and tugs his gloves back on. “Turn around,” he bids. Of course, you obey, kneeling in front of him once more. You realize that the core of you has been spurred to life faintly, a gentle buzz in your belly; the first signs of arousal. You turn crimson, looking down just in time to see him extend one leg, balancing his foot on the heel. “Now, use your tongue.”

Your jaw drops open at that. If you could flush anymore, you would. You can almost hear the blood pounding in your head. “What?”

He tilts his head to one side, not bothering to repeat himself- he knows you heard him. You know he’ll be awfully upset if you make him wait very long, but for some reason, you feel frozen. You know what he said, yet your brain refuses to accept it as true. You need him to repeat himself. After a few more moments, he leans forward; instinctively, you flinch, but he grabs your hair anyway and bends you down so that your cheek rests on the floor, your eyes staring at his heel. Your heart is racing, and for some godsforsaken reason, your core ignites with heat, the humiliation and pain only making you want him more.  _ Holy shit _ , you think, horrified by yourself. When you still lay there immobile, his grip tightens. “Use your tongue on my boots,  _ puppy _ . Prove you cleaned them well enough.”  _ Puppy _ . You squeeze your eyes shut to keep the mortified tears from falling. He can see everything, can’t he? He doesn’t even need to answer for you to know. You run your tongue slowly up the rubber side of his boots. “Open your eyes. It doesn’t matter if you cry.”

Your core throbs and you obey; you’ve submitted to the humiliation, accepting it, and yet still a tear slides down one cheek, then the other. You know he’s staring at you, though his helmet offers no indication of his line of vision. Looking up at him is daunting and almost surreal - you feel so tiny and unimportant, lavishing his boots with your eager tongue. It’s surprisingly comforting. He doesn’t react to your filthy thoughts, just watches you behind his cold, unemotive, inhuman mask as your tongue moves over every nook and cranny of the leather, the rubber, the laces. As you’re running your tongue through the grooves of the soles, he pulls his boot away and sets it on the ground. You gasp, desperate to have it returned to you. Your stomach is melting through your cunt and your breasts are aching for attention. You’re dizzy and drowsy and hungry. You feel like your entire body is made out of molasses, desperate to pour every inch of yourself over every inch of this domineering stranger barking instructions at you.  _ You’ve never even seen his face _ . He extends his other boot and you moan gratefully, lapping at that one, too. Eventually, though, he grows tired of that and takes it away from you as well. You straighten and gaze up at him with half-lidded eyes, your mouth agape. It doesn’t once occur to you how slutty you must look.

“Come closer,” he bids, and you slink to kneel in between his legs, your breasts resting on the seat between his muscular thighs. He strokes her hair again, then your cheek, then your lips. The worn leather feels strange against your skin, but familiar (now) to your lips. Your eyes flutter close and you reverently kiss his fingers. He indulges you, sticking two of them in your mouth and watching you suckle and kiss them thoughtlessly. You worship his gloves just like you did his boots, though they taste different- they’re older, more worn down. He cleans them himself, and not with all the chemicals you use. He suddenly puts his hands under your shoulders and lifts you easily up, setting you in his lap. You’re straddling his waist, your pussy so close to his bulge and yet so dreadfully far away. His hands settle on your ass. “My mask,” he says. You bring your lips to the spot so near his own, pressing your tongue against the strange material. You lavish his face for a long time, until finally, he stops you. “Enough,” he says. “Stand up.”

Holding back a whimper, you obey. He wordlessly tugs your pants down, eyeing the lavender cotton beneath them. You’re grateful something told you to wear these- your favorite pair, styled to look worn down, translucent in some places, the perfect cut to make you look your best. They are visibly moist with the labor of your arousal. You want to beg him to touch you, but his words spring back to mind -  _ I prefer it if you don’t speak _ . You hear him give the faintest ghost of a chuckle, then rub his hands gently over the cloth. Your head falls back immediately, and his other hand pushes the top of your uniform up above your breasts, exposing them to the cold air.

“I can hear your thoughts, Y/N,” he says. “You don’t need to bother talking - unless I tell you to.”

_ So he does know my name… _ As he presses a finger up into your slit, not caring about the leather or cloth keeping him from actually touching you, he chuckles again as you moan and lean into his hand. The cloth feels magical against your sensitive skin, but you already knew that. You’d circled your clit with it dozens of times, all the while thinking about what the mighty Kylo Ren might do to you if he ever deigned to touch you. He buries a finger inside of you, the fabric of your panties coming with. It’s a tight sensation, and his finger is all that could fit inside your virgin opening. Servants of the First Order are sworn to celibacy, but for some reason, you doubt Kylo is going to tell on you.  _ Better to reprimand me yourself _ , you dare to think at him.

He hisses approvingly at your lewd suggestion. “Do you think so, slut? You  _ do _ deserve punishment… Look at all this, over merely doing your assignment. You’re nothing but a degenerate whore, aren’t you?” You feel your body quake at his obscene words, all spoken while his finger fucks you harder, faster, deeper. He adds a second finger, stretching you. “Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

“Say it.  _ Say it _ .”

“I’m a filthy fucking slut,” you gasp. “A sloppy, wet cunt for you, all from doing my assignment.”

Another growl of approval. “Good bitch. You are my puppy, aren’t you?”

“I’m your puppy, sir,”

“Good bitch,” he says again. “Go to my bed.” You glance down at the waistband keeping your knees close together. “Don’t touch your pants, just go to my bed.”

You pitifully waddle over to his bed, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. You stop at the foot of his bed, waiting for further instruction. You hear him casually approaching behind you, feel him press into you, wrap his arms around you, roughly groping your breasts. You grind yourself back into you and he gives a mechanical hiss in response. He’s  _ huge _ \- breathlessly, you wonder how he’s ever going to fit inside of you. Then, you realize you don’t care  _ how _ \- as long as he forces his glorious cock inside of you, you’ll be content.

“So fucking vile,” he taunts you, then shoves your head down into the bed. “Be patient, puppy, we’ll get to stuffing you full later.” You whimper pleadingly in response, and he smacks your ass hard. “Remember- you wanted your punishment. Asked for it.” He turns from you and walks to the riding crop, retrieving it.  _ Is he really going to _ \- “Yes,” he says. “I am.” He stops behind you once more, running the end of the crop along your rear. “And you’re going to beg me to.”

“What?” you ask, startled by his order.

“Beg for your punishment, slut,” he says casually, as if explaining something mundane.

You don’t know how to beg. You open your mouth, then shudder as he slowly lowers your underwear with the handle of the crop. “Please,” you say, spurred on by the pleasure his act elicits. “Punish me, master.”

It’s enough. He slaps the crop against your bare skin harder than you thought he would have, at least on the first blow, and you jump. Precious pain sears over your rump. “Keep begging, slut. I don’t remember telling you to stop.”

“Hit me again, sir,” you whine. “Please- I deserve it.”

“Don’t you?” he eggs you on thoughtlessly, striking you again. His careless words give you pause, though.

“No, sir. I don’t deserve your punishment-” he strikes you again mid-sentence, lighter this time, as if telling you that you’d better be going somewhere. “-It’s too good. I don’t deserve the pleasure of being beaten by my master.”

He hisses his approval, then hits you again,  _ hard _ . You moan delightedly as it sends shocks through your skin. It’s too sharp; it hurts too much. You love it. “Keep going,” he says, annoyed to have to remind you.

“Thank you, sir-”

“ _ Master _ ,” he corrects, striking you yet again. You’re not quite sure how many more blows it will take to go past your breaking point, but you’re overeager for him to show you and march you straight up to that line, threatening to shove you far past it. You want him to break you.

“Thank you so much, master,” you whimper as he strikes you two, three times in a row. “Break me- please, master, make me fucking pay.” You don’t even remember what you’re being punished for now, but it doesn’t matter- the only things that matter are 1) the delicious, searing pain of the crop 2) the pleased hissing and growling of your master and 3) being a good little slut and begging for more pain, more punishment, more torture.

Eventually- not very long after the start, as his blows are hard and merciless, growing ever closer together- you’re close to breaking. Never stopping, you hear the hiss of his helmet being removed, then see it land in front of you on the bed. The anticipation of his face behind you- uncovered, on display- makes you moan and whine even more. Your ass aches, and you’re in desperate need of mercy. Even a lustful glance from him would do- the sight of his perfect face. It doesn’t matter what he looks like; he’s your master, he owns you, and he’s perfect. “Close your eyes.” His voice is deep and clear, the mechanical verve to it gone. You obey, squeezing them shut. He yanks you up by your hair, kissing and biting and suckling on the rim of your ear. His lips are large and soft, his tongue large and hot, his teeth straight. His breath was warm and it smelled of cinnamon sugar. Your cunt is rioting, demanding to be pounded. Your ass is screaming for relief. The rest of you is begging for attention from your master. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” You do, and he grips your face in one gloved hand. With the other hand, he pulls your hips taut against his, and you obediently squirm into the hard bulge in his pants, ignoring the sting. “Have you had enough, slut? Are you going to behave now?”

“Uh-huh,” you manage, but his grip on your jaw makes it impossible to speak. He twists your head uncomfortably in order to spit on your face, in your mouth, on your closed eyes. You shudder into his still covered body, feeling filthy, feeling worthless, feeling wonderful. He spins you around and holds you tight around the waist with one arm, dropping the crop on the bed. The other hand is still gripping your face.

“You look so ugly like this,” he taunts. “Face all distorted, dripping in my spit. You love it, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,”

“ _ Speak _ , bitch. Use words.”

“Yes, sir, I love it,” you attempt, but his grip makes it impossible-  _ yeh, hir, i yuh eh _ . Your jaw is imobile and your tongue is resting uselessly at the base of his thumb.

“Such a stupid, silly whore,” he says. He shakes you suddenly but gently and you whimper, steadying yourself by gripping the wrist he holds your face with and the bicep of his other arm. He shakes you harder, knowing you like it, because he can see your everything - what little you consist of. You’re nothing but a little cockroach sent to scrub his boots, and you’re absolutely blessed to be standing here, abused, his spit tickling your face. “That’s fucking right,” he assures you. “You’re fucking nothing. Who do you belong to, Nothing?”

“You, master,” you attempt.

He shakes you again. His spit is sliding down your face ever faster, collecting in your mouth thanks to his gloved hand. It’s pooling on your tongue, threatening to drown you. What a wonderful death that would be. “Say my name, slut- who do you fucking belong to?”

“Kylo Ren,” you say.  _ Ay-oh eh _ . He releases your face only to slap you once, twice, three times, alternating cheeks. Your head is spinning and your cheeks are on fire- he hit you hard. “Thank you, master,” you say through the spit still in your mouth. You want to savour it, to swallow it, but you don’t dare do anything without his permission. If it were at all realistic, you’d beg for permission to  _ breathe _ .

“Swallow, bitch,” he says. “Drink my spit- here.” He spits on your face two more times as you obey, then smears it over your face. His hand closes around your throat. “God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he manages. His praise makes you shudder and whimper, and your knees buckle, but you’re supported by his large, broad body. His grip on your throat tightens, slowly, until you can’t breathe- you can feel him closely monitoring your reaction, and the way your body responds. You feel utterly safe even as he restricts your ability to breathe and cuts off the blood flow to your brain. You chortle there, reality fading away, until he lets up for a moment, then slowly clenches back down. Eventually, before you can even recover, he’s cast you down onto your knees in front of him. By the time you’re fully conscious again, you can feel him on your face- his long, girthy cock. You’re in awe of it. “Don’t you dare look at my face,” he says. “But open your eyes.”

You obey, gazing at his giant member. It’s as hard as a rock, pale, veiny, twitching. You’re honored to see what your suffering has done for him- infinitely grateful to be of use to your master. The rest of the world fades away as you focus on him, the dark, supple hair at his base, his pink balls below. His scent is washing over you, intoxicating. You’re desperate for him to fuck your throat with wild abandon.

He hisses gently. “Patience,” he says, though it sounds as if he’s nearly as eager as you. “Show me your tongue.” You do, and he taps his cock against it. “You like the smell of me, don’t you, puppy?”

“Yes, master,” you say, though you’re careful not to move your tongue.

“Such a little freak you are,” he taunts, then lifts his foot onto the bed, His giant, muscular thigh is beside you. You suddenly want him to crush you. “Tilt your head back, freak.” You do, and he responds by pressing his sack against your tongue. “Suck.”

You obey, worshipping his soft skin with adulation and care, not paying attention to the curls that tickle the half-dried spit still on your face. You pop your mouth instinctively around them, moving back and forth between them, until he tires of this and pulls back, replacing it with the head of his cock. You lick and kiss, swirling your tongue around him, wanting to swallow his mass whole but waiting patiently like the good little slut you are. Without warning, he thrusts all the way in; you gag, and then he pulls back out. You’re more prepared as he thrusts in again, making your mouth-pussy the perfect, tight little fuckhole for him. He grips your hair as he thrusts, moving your head as he pleases. You hear him curse and moan above you- you desperately want to see his face, but obediently restrain yourself. Your mouth is making strange noises as he fucks it, deep and guttural, primal and raw. It’s almost as if you were made to be fucked like this, kneeling at your master’s freshly cleaned boots, covered in his spit and the red, rising marks of his crop. You’re half certain you could cum just from this alone- but as he fucks you harder, faster, growing more desperate, you yearn for more. You beg him mentally to let you touch yourself, but he doesn’t once respond. After his moans and grunts turn to whimpers and cries, he pulls back and stumbles away from you, gripping his dick tightly in his hand. You pant, careful not to look up at his face. “Please,” you whimper, feeling restless and frustrated and about ready to explode. “Master, please- fuck my cunt. Ruin me, decimate me- roll me into a ball and fuck me into the perfect little fuck toy, shaped just for you. Just, please - I need your cock.”

“Do you?” he asks, straightening, his voice strained. He’s breathless; it was hard for him not to lose control and cum down your throat. You’d have loved that- you both would have- but then, he might not have been able to fuck you. “Did I give you permission to speak, cunt?”

“No, master. I’m sorry, master.”

“I bet you are,” he mutters. He grabs you by the top of your hair. “Close your eyes.” You obey, and he yanks you up to your feet. He rips your shirt off, destroying it, and you can only whimper and shudder in anticipation. Your pants and panties are shoved down your legs, and you kick them off eagerly. He backs you up until your shins are touching the bed and roughly rubs your face clean. He grabs your throat, leaning in close. You’re entirely unsure of what he’ll do to you next, but a sense of anticipation is building instinctively. You’re half calm and half needy, your body still screaming for more. “Open your eyes.”

You do, seeing dark, hungry eyes looking back at you. Dark eyebrows are above them, knitted in an angry desire. His nose is long and hooked, his cheeks smooth, skin peppered with birthmarks. His lips are as large and plump as you’d imagined them. He is- heart wrenchingly, breathtakingly, timestoppingly,  _ devastatingly _ handsome. He puts his forehead on yours in a strangely intimate way.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, one hand caressing your side, your hip.

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “All yours.”

He brushes a thumb over your parted lips, eyeing them for a moment. “Such a pretty little slut,” he coos. You shudder, eyes fluttering. He’s perfect,  _ so perfect _ , and he thinks you’re pretty- he thinks you’re sexy. Your heart is dancing for him, so much so that your body feels strange.

He shoves you hard onto the bed then yanks you closer, indicating the momentary sweetness is done. He drapes one of your legs over his shoulder and holds the other knee in one hand. The core of you is spread slightly, swollen and dripping. He glides his cock over your slit, looking down at your most sensitive flesh. You can’t stop staring at his gorgeous, focused face. His eyes meet yours. “Beg, slut.”

“Please, master,” you whimper, your exhausted, needy body urging you on. “Fuck me, please. I need to feel your cock slamming in and out of me- I need my master to claim my greedy, hungry cunt.”

“Good bitch,” he mutters and slams into you. Your mind explodes in a supernova of pain and pleasure; he’s so much thicker than just his two fingers, and you feel like you’re being torn in half in the most glorious of ways. He lets the top half of you twitch and squirm, holding your legs securely in place, eyes scouring over your body as your breasts bounce atop your heaving chest. You cry out as he keeps going, not bothering to be gentle or give you time to adjust, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He fucks you until you’re a mindless, moaning, drooling mess- then he thrusts his knee beneath yours, yanking you up into his arms; he sits down and, gripping your hips, he fucks himself with your body, moving you effortlessly, like you were a lifeless, weightless doll. You cling to him, kissing and sucking and worshipping his neck, his jaw, pressing your tits against him. Every once in a while he turns his head down and kisses you deeply on the mouth for a long time.

You’re desperate for an orgasm, but incapable of speech- barely capable of making any sort of coherent thought. You can feel him work himself up slowly to an orgasm of his own, and it isn’t until he’s on the brink of it that he moves one hand to tease your clit, standing out proudly and desperately, swollen and oversensitive. Your body twitches violently, trying to get away from the all-too-intense pleasure, but he holds you still, knowing you need to cream yourself on your master’s cock, impaling you over and over again still.

“Say my name when you come for me,” he growls, voice barely human, as if the pleasure is restricting his throat. You shudder at the sexy sound.

“Yes, master,” you coo.

It’s a few more moments before he speaks, his face dangerously close to yours. You feel his hot breath on yours, his sweat-speckled hair tickling you. “Cum for me, you stupid fucking whore.”

“Ye-es, Kylo,” you coo. “Oh, thank you! Fucking, fuck,  _ gods _ yes.” He fucks you still, circling your abused clitoris for several moments more while you whimper in the pain and forced pleasure. Then, he slams your hips against his and grinds up into you, growling, eyes fluttering closed. There’s no room in your cunt for his cum- he fills you up from your entrance to your cervix- but it stretches anyway and bubbles out at his base. He leans back for support while your head falls back, mouth open, the epitome of divine pleasure washing over you as he pumps you full of his seed. That’s all you’re worth- just a moaning slut for him to abuse and pump full at his own discretion. The best you can do is hope it’s often. It feels just right sitting there on his lap, his cum spewing up into you; you’re just a good little bitch being bred by her master.

When he’s done he pulls you to him and you collapse in his arms, a sweaty, panting, heavily sated and very sore mess. He halfheartedly drags you both to the pillows, curling up with you beneath the blanket. That spicy sea scent washes over you, and you press your cheek into him. You feel him massage your rear; the welts are painful, but his touches seem to soothe rather than agitate. He pulls back to look at your face. “Are you alright?” he asks you tenderly.

“Yes,” you say. He strokes your cheek, studying your face. You feel him peruse your mind to confirm. He stands up then and undresses, tossing his things to the hamper.

“I’ll have someone send for your belongings in the morning,” he says. “You’re never leaving my room again.”

Even if he means that literally, you’re not sure you mind. “Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit,”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Your eyes flutter with tiredness as he walks off to find food. His bed is soft and welcoming, so unlike anything you’ve ever known. You could get used to this… And from the sound of it, he didn’t seem to mind that.


End file.
